


The Keeper

by themistwolfkid



Series: Generations [1]
Category: Final Fantasy Crystal Chronicles
Genre: Death, Gen, Headcanon, I don't know it's been a while since I've played the game, I made up a language specifically for this, OC, and I needed to set a defined difference between the races via dialect and speech patterns, so there you have it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:06:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3670089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themistwolfkid/pseuds/themistwolfkid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are those who journey out into the miasma to seek life.<br/>There are others who journey into the darkness to bring back the dead.<br/>A Yuke too well acquainted with death and ends meets a child too well acquainted with life and returns.<br/>(To answer the question "Where do the bodies go if there are no graveyards?")</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Keeper

_Seek the water of life._

She nodded her head and let the front of her sallet fall down with a tinny slam. It was early in the morning, Shella square. She stood beneath the village crystal's odd green light and pondered what could have been, and what never was.

She stood unadorned and introverted, just how she liked. She could have, if she wanted, tried to dress up a little. Heck, she could have tried to look her designated gender and everything. But the crowds she visited were not seeking lavish appearance and well-put-together, pretty suits of armor, decked in a tin brassiere. Hers was not like the crystal caravans, who had to keep some semblance of an appearance; some spark of life and hope within their canvas enclosures.

Hers was a work called thankless. Hopeless. No one looked forward to her return.

_O, ye keepers of the crystal, return home safely with our preservation._

There came a voice in the distance.

"Ho, Synelwyn. I take it you have received another call?" She gazed up at the approaching Yuke, stared at his horned helmet. He looked, at this distance, distinctly like a goblin with cropped ears. It was a sallet made with careful blows; elegant, yet strong. She would have wasted no coin on such a thing.

"Ho, Annanwe. Of course I have. Why else would I be gazing wistfully at the crystal that these people die for?"

"Some die from old age," the other Yuke commented lightly. "You seem particularly bitter this morning. Breakfast tea a little too sweet for your tastes?"

"I should think not. Sweetened tea is not enough to get me so down." Annanwe stood beside her and gazed into the emerald glow. A strange crystal for a strange people, she supposed.

"Well," he said, "why do you not explain to me what has you so upset? While I know what you think of your work, I have never seen you so distraught about it." Synelwyn sighed heavily, the sound bouncing through her helmet.

"How long have the people fought this...miasma? This dark mist?" The question was, of course, rhetorical. "A thousand years, and nothing to show for it. It is as thick and dank as the day it first came to terrorize us all."

"Your point?" Annanwe asked, turning his head to her. "You always start like this, but I've never heard your conclusion." Synelwyn sighed as she checked her time. She clicked her tongue in displeasure.

"And you shall not hear it today. You understand that the dead wait for no one...especially not when there is no one to cast Slow upon their rotting bodies."

"Always with the pungent imagery," Annanwe commented. If he were a Clavat, Synelwyn could imagine a pleasantly disgusted face painted upon his features.

"But of course," Synelwyn replied, a smile in her voice. "I enjoy regaling only the most vivid details of my precious work." Annanwe let out a small chuckle.

"As biting as the coldest Blizzaga...I would expect nothing less of you, Synelwyn. I shall leave you to your commute then. Where to this time?"

She sighed deeply. The wing on Annanwe's back twitched in surprise.

"You are rarely so hesitant. Is the location so...bad?" Synelwyn brought a wide brimmed hat over her head as it began to drizzle. Annanwe ducked into the broad coverage of the brim, and together, they ran under the shelter of the nearby shop.

Annanwe wiped away the flyaway drops. Synelwyn turned away from her friend as she faced the wet world outside. How unfortunate that it should rain moments before her departure.

"It is..." She paused, leaning on the doorway. "It is the place I usually do not tend to," she replied slowly.

Annanwe waited expectantly as Synelwyn adjusted her hat. "Ah," he said, suddenly recalling a town past even the outpost of Marr's Pass, "that one." Synelwyn nodded.

"I must journey to village Tipa."

_O, ye cautious guardians, walk into the dark, carrying with you the light of tomorrow, and bring back the water that will save us for another year._

The road to Tipa from Shella was usually fairly clear, guarded by brave Lilties as it was. Tipa lay at the edge of the peninsula of the same name, and could have been considered a coastal town if it had suited the peaceful villagers. It did not, though they embraced the waterways with a small port and with a decent sea market. It was the sort of town that seemed to hold no secrets, just like the roads Synelwyn traveled. Generally speaking, it seemed as though all these towns lay in a straight line from each other, and it was near impossible to get lost.

And who would? No caravan could afford to waste such valuable time as to go gallivanting off the beaten trail, and no explorer was equipped to brave the creatures that lurked in the truly unexplored wild. And so such paths remained undiscovered and untouched by the world as it was, and the roads to the mainland towns remained familiar as death is to life.

Of course, easy routes did not mean easy travel.

Driving rain fell from unforgiving, near-black skies, and Synelwyn cursed autumn for its tendency towards such dreary melancholy. As if her work wasn't sad enough already.

How fortuitous, Synelwyn thought bitterly, that the season these people should call upon her in was autumn. Fall. The beginning of the end.

She supposed that when one traveled alone, her only cargo the dead bodies of the fallen, she might become a little melancholy herself.

Though she herself was not to blame. She much preferred to blame the dreary garb she wore as a Keeper. It made her seem distant even from the Yukes, and she found even those mysterious folk shying away from contact with her, almost as though these scientific creatures feared the superstitious omen she seemed to represent. She was not only a Keeper of the Dead, but perhaps an agent of the forgotten god; death itself.

Her garbs were dark; black layered with dark maroons and midnights and swamp-water greens. Her helmet was, unlike most Yukes', rather dull and unadorned. No horns or metal curls to speak of. Her face looked merely like a solemn metal bird skull; a clockwork, avian machine-puppet controlled by the endless ringing of Death's bell. It called the hour; she came to pick up the remains. Remains of dead friends, dead children, dead heroes, dead villains.

Thankless, hopeless work.

The road for the Keeper's caravan was a lonely one, as plain and empty as the broad, undecorated spaces on the sides of her sallet. The wide eyeholes generously cut into the face gave her a very clear view of how sadly alone she was.

"The Keeper," she'd hear caravans whisper as she passed them on the roads. They'd scamper off as far to the side as they could; gave her the widest berth possible, so as not to have a "brush with death", so to speak.

For she was death. Her particular favorite playtitle was "The Vulture," so beautifully dumped upon her by the Lilty guard that stood watch by the mighty city of Alfitaria. Little buggers.

"Ho, Synelwyn!"

Synelwyn looked up, caravan of thought capsized on her mind's road, and stared out into the muddy darkness. A large hand, stripped and unmistakably Yuke, waved at her from a ways down the road.

It was Annadetty, the leader of the Shella caravan. The star shaped front of her helm was unmistakable, just as the energetic voice was. She waved happily to Synelwyn as she approached.

"Ho, my friend," Synelwyn called back. "Hail to the great Shella caravan. Returning to our great haven early?" The Yuke driver nodded.

"An easy time we've had," she replied. "Magic has been our greatest tool." She pondered this statement. "Traditionally, it is our only tool. But nonetheless, it has served us well this cycle."

Synelwyn leaned back and spoke with a tease at the edge of her voice. "So, I will not have to send off any Shellan bodies this year?" The two shared a morbid laugh about it.

"I'm glad to say not," Annadetty replied, a smile in her voice. "At least, no caravanners. I return to my Amidatty safe as when I left, as do the others. They're napping in the back, you see. We're safer, perhaps, because I have brought our chalice home full as it can be."

Synelwyn nodded. "Then I shall keep you no longer in this driving rain," she said. "Safe journey to Shella, my good friend! And be careful of the rust."

"Aye, and to you as well," Annadetty received with a nod. The papaopamus gave a low groan as she cracked the reigns again, and the caravan of Shella trundled on. They parted ways, and with every yard between them, Synelwyn felt a little heavier.

"Annadetty!" she finally called. The other driver paused. "You have begun to sound just like those other villages' caravanners!"

Annadetty waved at the other driver. "That's what happens when they're all the company you have!" And she was gone within minutes.

 _All the company you have_ , Synelwyn thought to herself. She patted her beast's rump affectionately. "It's a wonder that I haven't begun to moo in conversation!" The cold rain felt a little warmer to the dark-clad driver.

_Though the path may grow hard, may you guardians return to us each year, with the vitality of the waters of which you seek._

Of course, from then on, the roads were disappointingly muddy and solitary. She passed no other caravan, and assumed they were all either fighting far away across the Jegon or deep in some monster infested wood.

The time between Shella and Tipa was about a month in this weather, though perhaps that was another reason the people thought of the Keeper's Caravan as the caravan of the god of death itself.

Haste, as in the spell, was the Keeper's favorite toy, much like the spell Slow was. Haste was weaved of powerful magic, but had to be cast constantly to improve speed enough to cut travel times in half. It left Synelwyn tired and fatigued at the end of her trip, and gave her a weary aura that radiated doom and sadness.

She wasn't exactly the life of the party.

Slow was a much easier spell, and she could cast it constantly over the bodies to prevent rot, but she couldn't cast both spells at the same time.

So, on the first day, she stored energy and made Haste all the rest of the way to her destination. On the way back, she gifted her precious cargo the funeral parade they deserved, curtained in the iridescent magic of Slow.

As was usual, she was forced to pass Alfitaria's lands. The only true landmarks she cared to speak of were the sudden increase of sprouts that dodged hastily out of her way every few steps. It seemed that, though fiery, these small creatures did quite enjoy the rain, and had decided to dance about in it, heedless of what might trundle past and run them over. She wondered, vaguely, if she could cultivate the lot of them if she tried hard enough.

Many of Alfitaria's soldiers ducked away from her caravan as it trundled past the mighty gates, though some brave souls stood and gave a shaky salute as she passed.

"Your name?" Synelwyn struggled out. It had been a long road, and she longed for speaking company.

"L-Lun Racht, Keeper sir!" He straightened his back and gripped his stave with a strong determination. Lilty though he was, Synelwyn liked his courage, and she gave him a quiet nod as she passed.

"Keep watch, as always, young soldier. Work hard so you may not have to join my caravan before your time."

"Y-y-yes sir!"

Synelwyn felt herself smile for a moment, then began her trek again.

Tipa was only a short time away.

_May the wind guide you; may the earth steady every step you take._

Tipa was known for its warmth. Its caravan returned each year with a smile, and its citizens were more diverse than any town she had ever seen. The crystal glowed from the center of town, and the people flourished like plants beneath a gentle sun and nourishing rain. Synelwyn had to stop herself every time she almost compared its brightness to the lost town of Tida.

A nightmare, even for a Keeper.

Today, it seemed the light had dimmed, and it wasn't because of the angry rain. Tipa, just as it celebrated, mourned more deeply than any other place Synelwyn had ever seen.

And even knowing that, Synelwyn felt something different about this welcoming of death.

"Ho, Keeper," Roland's tired voice hailed from below. Synelwyn climbed down from the driver's box and stood before the elder. She bowed respectfully.

"Greetings, Tipa's Elder. I came with haste, as usual."

"Indeed. We thank you for that as usual, noble Keeper. But perhaps this time, we would have wished for a stall in your arrival…more so than usual, I suppose." He grappled with a smile, but it came out as a grimace.

"May I ask why?" Synelwyn searched. A giggling Clavat girl fell at her feet, took one look at her, and scurried away again, laughter gone. Her mother embraced her and dragged her away, muttering something under her breath. Synelwyn kept her gaze on the elder before her, who looked smaller by the minute.

"We are having…complications with the body," Roland answered slowly.

"Any complication, I can fix," the Keeper said. "Please show me the body, and I will handle it."

"It is…not the complication you would expect, noble Keeper."

The Keeper suppressed a sigh. "Little surprises me anymore," she grumbled. A Selkie boy-child gave her a fearful, dirty look and stumbled away, pulling his mother with him. The Keeper shrugged her black-covered shoulders. "Show me the body, elder."

The old man's brows knit together and he sighed. "I am sorry for the inconvenience," he muttered. "It's been a difficult few weeks, you must understand…" He shook his head.

"Please follow me."

_May the fire of the soul fuel your fighting hearts; may the water of life nourish your noble spirits, just as it saves ours._

The body that lay on the cold stone table was Liltian. Though covered, some…parts stuck out, and she could see the way the sprout on the head was already withered. The room smelled distinctly of rotting vegetable.

Though she held some distaste for the Lilties, their bodies had always disturbed her the most.

A caravanner in life, she assessed from the doorway. She observed with a fascinated, nauseated gaze, imagining that tiny body swinging a lance, determined to retrieve another drop of liquid life. Now here it lay, drying and decomposing in the quiet dark. She breathed in and choked.

If she wasn't so fond of the taste, she never would have touched a food plant ever again.

A child sat next to the covered body, holding tightly onto the armored hand that hung off the table. The child's legs were drawn close to its chest, and stormy, red-rimmed eyes glared vigil out the door and into the eyeholes stamped into the Keeper's helm.

"Why," the Keeper said after a time, "is the body still clothed?" Roland's eyebrows shot up at this observation. "The child is of no consequence. It must simply let go."

"That's the problem," Roland said quietly. "She hasn't let go in three weeks, Keeper." The Keeper slowly turned to him.

"How has she eaten?"

"With one hand. Her grandfather has tended to her."

"Slept?"

"On the floor."

The Keeper paused.

"Used…used the latrine?"

"That…chamber pot over there, noble Keeper."

At this mention, she noticed a faint smell of urine. It was overpowered by the smell of plant rot, but still present. The child looked ashamed for a fraction of a moment before her stormy eyes became steel once again and her grip tightened. A chinking of armor bounced around the candlelit room.

The Keeper eyed the child. "It sounds like you enabled her, then," she said steadily. "She is a  _child_. You could have withheld food for a day. That usually breaks their will."

"…We held out for two, actually. No food, little water. Her grandmother got worried and snuck some food in, and there the child was, holding onto that hand. Fal Iseul is a stubborn girl."

The child glanced at Roland when she heard her name, but said nothing. The Keeper tapped her fingers along the doorway.

"You could have tried brute force, then. Have you attempted to pry her away?"

"She bit them last night. The men who were summoned. One was looking for infection this morning."

The child seemed to bite back a laugh before shame flashed through her eyes again. She stared up at the Keeper, and the Keeper stared back.

Silver-blue hair with eyes the color of iron. A Selkie if she'd ever seen one. But a cropping of young leaves sprouted from the top of the little girl's head, and the Keeper was forced to assume that this child was, indeed, an odd Selkie-Lilty half-breed.

Which meant a troublesome temperament.

"Aye, she's a stubborn bugger," grumbled a tired voice. Fal Iseul seemed to look past the pair and into the darkness of the hallway. "You make all out lives harder, love."

A bearded Lilty with a merchant's bounty made his way into the room. "Ore Lon," he offered as he lay a stripped apple down onto the floor, far out of the girl's reach. He turned to the girl and made as though he was about to negotiate with a customer.

"Now see, love, you'll need to come over here to eat your breakfast, yeah?"

Fal Isuel's eyes shone with determination and fury. She held tightly onto the gauntlet's fingers, as though they anchored her to the earth itself, and reached out to grab the stem of the apple with her toes.

Swipe. Miss. Swipe, swipe. Miss. Swipe, slip, swipe. Miss. Scramble.

She sat back, crossed her legs, and pouted before turning away from all of them. Her grip turned white, even in the dim candle light, and she sniffed both stubbornly and sullenly.

A steady rain beat the sky's rhythm on the rooftop. It was the only sound for a long time.

Synelwyn sighed and turned the apple over in her large hand.

"Very nice quality," she commented lightly. "Very fresh. I assume it was grown here?"

"Aye, it were. They were. It was," Ore Lon stuttered. "A nice family, the Redwoods."

Synelwyn nodded absently and took a step into the room. Fal Iseul tensed, and her pupils contracted. She growled. Synelwyn chuckled as the two men made to scold the child. The Keeper knelt down before the child, sweeping the wide-brimmed hat off her head, and held out the apple.

"Now," she began, "you…'ve been here a long time, haven't you, young one?" Synelwyn, Yuke proper, struggled with the more common dialect used by the people she served. "You've done a…good job guarding. But do you know who I am?"

Fal Iseul regarded her with distrustful eyes, growling softly.

"…I must take this…person away now," Synelwyn said after a pause. "It is my duty to—"

"Ori matim gna tansunna kai."

Synelwyn looked into the girl's eyes. The voice was hoarse, either from overuse or disuse. It was still distinctively childish.

"Ori matim gna tansunna kai," the child repeated.

You're not taking my mother.

Ah, the Selkic tongue.

"Your mother?"

Fal Iseul took a second to nod, as though she had forgotten what the common word for "matim" was. Fal Iseul took the apple slowly and chomped cautiously.

"Ora im matan gna tansunona sor," Synelwyn explained slowly, stumbling along the foreign syllables. She hadn't spoken Selkic in a long, long time. "Ora im ta gashiknam."

"Matim ta ora na," Fal Iseul muttered back. "Matim gna pakshikna.  _Ora im_  ta gashikna!"

She spoke excitedly now, life replacing anger. Her sentences grew repetitive, like a chant. This is  _my_  mother. I'm protecting her. It's  _my_  job! And though it was the Keeper's job to take her away, Fal Iseul would not allow her to follow through with it.

Still, Fal Iseul's grip had loosened.

The Lilty merchant swooped in and stole the girl into the air, holding her far away from the dead body of her mother.

"I got 'er!" he called triumphantly. "Good job, Keeper!"

A look of unadulterated betrayal crossed the girl's face, and she snarled something both unintelligible and unspeakably rude into the musty air. Peppered words of "old man" and "put me down" were the only things Synelwyn wanted to translate. She brought her hat back to her head with a quiet sigh.

"Alright," the Lilty said, "take my girl outside. It's about time we said our good byes."

_Great crystal, may your blessing never fade. May the blood of our sons and daughters not fall in vain._

A small crowd had gathered in the square.

The caravan had arrived months early. A proper record for the Tipa caravan; one that many assumed would never be broken. It was a wonderful event to attribute to a fallen warrior.

Amidst the crowd squirmed the still fighting Fal Iseul, now in the arms of a tall Clavat man whose eyes shone with both pity and frustration. His arm was bandaged tightly, and every time the girl in his grip struggled, he flinched.

Beside them, a few people to their left, sat a man in a chair with wheels. He had the same stormy eyes as Fal Iseul, and the same hair, but he stared soullessly past the death caravan, and the road, and the world itself. He paid no attention to his struggling daughter.

A Clavat warrior, marked so by the sword at her hip, carried the body of her fallen comrade on a stretcher. Her air of resolution and solemnity was broken only by the way she childishly blew her long, dark hair out of her face. She was followed by a young man whose blue eyes darted about guiltily from the body to the caravan to the struggling half-breed to his partner ahead of him.

First years, the Keeper thought grimly.

"Again, I apologize for this inconvenience, Keeper," Roland said humbly. "I can't make any excuses for this whole thing. It's a tragedy as it is…"

"Peace, village elder," the Keeper replied as soothingly as she could. "It has ended well, has it not?"

Indeed, Fal Iseul had ceased struggling, and instead was merely glaring at the people taking her mother away. She seemed to relax her shoulders.

"Yes, I suppose so," Roland nodded slowly. The Clavatan pair loaded the body carefully onto the caravan and stepped reverently away. The Keeper began to step up into the driver's box.

The most obscene sentence ever uttered erupted from the crowd.

Fal Iseul broke away from her captor in one savage move. She flipped forward into the dirt, teeth gnashing, and took off. Ore Lon lurched forward with a yell, but missed her by a mile. The half-breed stumbled, hand over mane, and bowled through the Clavat warriors that tried to stop her.

She stood huffing before Synelwyn the Keeper, tiny fists clenched, teeth flashing like fangs.

"Ora," she began, then stopped. "I…go with you!" she struggled. "With Matim!"

The Keeper stepped down from the box, took three steps, towered before the mere sprout of a child. The girl stared up at the clockwork bird with determination in her eyes.

"Child," the Keeper's voice echoed through the square, "do you know who I am?"

"Thanaget," the little girl replied simply, without hesitation.

The root word for death was simply thana. Thanaget was a forgotten deity; a myth. The Selkic god of death.

"You must understand," the Keeper said slowly, "that you cannot go where she is going." She alluded vaguely to the caravan where the mother lay.

"I am not afraid of you," Fal Iseul said suddenly. "Matim was not afraid, so I am not afraid either." Her sentences clunked together awkwardly, haltingly. She stumbled bravely forward, mud splashing up her legs and onto the toe of the Keeper's shoes. She waited.

There was a brief battle between the two, or perhaps, it could be said, between the three. The Keeper's job was to carry the dead, and this child's job would soon be to carry the lives of the people who fought her today.

And Synelwyn, well…Synelwyn's job was simply to observe those lives go by without her.

This child stood before the Keeper, servant – no,  _god_  – of death and glared hard. It was a battle of wills, of wishes, of hopes. Her bangs stuck to her forehead and fell into her eyes. Her cheeks were smudged with mud and lined with raw, red scratches. Synelwyn, Keeper, watcher, deliverer, doom, could see her holding an aura racket, standing over the cooling bodies of her enemies.

A tiny keeper of the crystal.

The Keeper knelt before the child, and Synelwyn, introverted Yuke, heard the crowd draw a collective breath.

"Tason han matan gna natsunnam, ori gna detsunna kai," Synelwyn said softly.

Where your mother goes, you cannot follow.

"Matan gna…thanasunnam." Synelwyn heard the girl sniff.

"Ora im matan gna tansunona sor," Syelwyn said again, this time with a soft tone. She laid a hand on the girl's shoulder. Her fingers nearly touched the side opposite. "Ora im ta gashiknam."

Your mother is dead. I  _must_  take her away. It is my job.

"Don't want," Fal Iseul said, voice cracking. "Don't want y-you to take Matim…Mother away…" The common words came out in quiet hiccups, and the girl refused to blink, for then the tears in her eyes would fall.

"Now see here, young sprout," Synelwyn said. She was running very late. "Your mother…matan. She has died, yes. But did you know…that she will bring new life with it?"

"U-Unno tai?"

How?

"Aurana. Life," Synelwyn said, producing her caravan's crystal, "Thana. Death." She pointed to her caravan. "They come together in a cycle, child. Death follows life, yes. But life can also follow death. There are seeds that must burn before they can take root." Fal Iseul blinked. Synelwyn wiped away the tears, hoping she had said the right thing.

"Ori gna auranasunona sor," she said as softly as she could. "You must live. Live and grow strong; stronger, even, than matan."

"…Ta…okay," Fal Iseul assented.

"You cannot follow…us. Do you understand?"

"T…ta…"

"You will stay here and apologize for biting that man, yes?"

"…Ta."

"And you will grow strong."

"Ta…Like a tree?"

Synelwyn nodded. "Like a tree."

"Ta…Auranagetim kana."

If Yukes could blush, Synelwyn would be burning. And perhaps crying.

She stood up and gently patted the sprout coming up from the girl's head. Fal Iseul giggled tearfully.

"Delpatnam, Fal Iseul," the Yuke said.

"Good bye, servant of Life."

Synelwyn got to her feet and shooed Fal Iseul away. She turned at got into the driver's box, then paused. She ducked into the caravan. There was a faint rustling and a muttered curse before she emerged carrying something wrapped in cloth. She walked through the crowd to where the stunned Ore Lon stood.

"You are…the caravanner's father, no?"

"A…aye," Ore Lon replied slowly.

"Then this is yours. My condolences, sir." She handed him the weighty bundle and turned away. "Do not give it to the girl for a time," she advised as she walked back to the driver's box.

She settled in and gripped the familiar reins with new resolve. Roland trudged up to her seat, mud squelching beneath his feet, and looked up at her, eyes bright.

"As always," he said, voice lighter than before, "you honor us with your services, noble Keeper."

"Tipa's great elder," the Keeper breathed, "thank you." She tipped her hat in respect. Her hands snapped the reins, and the papaopamus groaned as he turned the caravan away from the village. Only as the caravan crossed the river did Fal Iseul turn away from its wake.

"You spoke with death," Synelwyn heard a little boy say hesitantly in the distance.

"You  _yelled_  at death!" a little girl exclaimed incredulously.

"Kaina," Fal Iseul dismissed, her voice proud. "Was the Keeper of Life."

Synelwyn leaned back, warmth flooding through her. The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle.

It would be a smooth journey home.

_Princess of lost memories, Queen of reflection, light our path in these dark times._

"…And that was how it was," Synelwyn told Annanwe. Again, they stood before the great emerald crystal of Shella. "My journey back to Shella was spent talking to that Lilty warrior's body."

"It would seem your journey changed you," Annanwe teased. "It only took…oh, how many years have you been a Keeper?"

"Two Clavatan generations. By the time that girl is grown, it will be three."

"Ah, indeed. It only took three generations!" Annanwe let out a deep, gonging laugh. "Has your experience changed your thesis statement, my friend? I have not forgotten my anticipation to learn."

Synelwyn paused for a second. "Yes," she said finally. "I suppose it has."

"And what has become of your great nihilistic philosophy?" Synelwyn flicked the beak of his helmet.

"Perhaps," she said over his squawk, "it is time to announce a change in the hypothesis." She looked into the glow of the crystal.

"It is for those children," she began, "that these brave fools fight such an invisible, intangible foe. And perhaps not only for those children, but for themselves, and their elders, and all who will live longer and after they do. What was it that young Amidatty said?"

"Son of Annadetty? That the miasma must come from something, and he would like to learn just where or what that is."

"—Indeed. And that is what it is as well. That these people die for those who will eventually extinguish the source of this great horror we know as miasma."

"…That is surprisingly hopeful of you, Synelwyn."

Synelwyn laughed. "Who knew death could change you so?"

A mail moogle floated by and nested in Annanwe's horns.

"A delivery, kupo!" he said cheerfully. "Two, actually! The ashes, and a letter!"

"A letter?" Annanwe asked, shooing the moogle off of his head. "You never get those. Who…?"

"It's from Tipa."

**_Ke eper_ **

**_Komon is not a thing I am goodat. lapatim say that I mast gettbetter at it._ **

**_Am trying to grow, bt am short anyway don't know wat to do._ **

**_Wantd to say thank u lapatim say that matim will com bak as ashes_ **

**_Fal Iseul_ **

Her writing was hard and messy, and was filled with atrocious spelling and grammar errors, but it was the only letter Synelwyn had ever received. Her grip on the paper tightened.

"Are you alright?" Annanwe inquired after a time.

A loud sniff echoed from deep within Synelwyn's helmet.

"…Are you crying, old friend?"

"Don't be daft," Synelwyn muttered. "Yukes are physically unable to shed tears." She turned to the moogle, who was now simply flying around their heads quite irritated that he had lost his perch.

"If you can, Mr. Moogle," Synelwyn said as she collected herself, "I'd like to retrieve something before I send off my response."

"No problem, kupo!"

She took off as fast as her Yuke legs could carry her.

_Guard us from the great thief of memories, and grant us your gift of crystal shine._

"Annadetty, friend. Do you have a seed from your journey?"

"A fruit seed, indeed. But what would you need it for?"

"A little friend who must do some growing. How much for it?"

"For you, noble Keeper? Five gil."

"It is done. Thank you, friend. Safe tidings in the coming year."

"And to you, Synelwyn."

_Guide our noble children, beloved guardians home._

The mail moogle floated through the air, a smile on its face. He observed the primly folded letter and package with great interest and delight. "A special letter, kupo?"

"Please send both the ashes and the…special letter to the same home," Synelwyn requested with a nod. "And give the girl this seed."

"Leave it to me, kupo!" He cried. He zoomed away into the sky, disappearing into the distance like a shooting star. Annanwe stared at his friend incredulously.

"My, how one trip can change a person!" he exclaimed. "I've never seen you so alive! And I've known you almost our entire lives."

"Aye," Synelwyn replied. "A month and a half can certainly transform you. And perhaps a change of title can as well."

Annanwe looked at his friend strangely. "A change of title?" he asked. Synelwyn nodded. They began to walk to the library.

"Tell me, old friend. How much Old Selkic do you know?"

_Protect them. Protect their pasts, which we offer, and protect their futures, which they seek._

The next year, moments before her departure, Synelwyn received another letter from Tipa. It carried with it a cherry cluster and a crinkled, water-stained letter.

**_Dear Keeper of Life,_ **

**_Thank you._ **

**_Fal Iseul_ **

_So mote it be._

**Author's Note:**

> It should be noted that the seemingly random breaks of that prayer during the story are what I thought the villagers might pray for after the caravan leaves.  
> The Selkic language as I have it written here uses the same vowel pronunciation as in the Japanese language. In addition, it has the same relative rhythm.  
> Matim means "my mother."  
> Matan means "your mother."  
> Mat being the root word for mother, im and an being possessive suffixes.  
> There are other grammar structures included, but it's a little difficult to explain. The Selkic language used here is based on Japanese/Korean grammar structure.  
> Aurana: life  
> Auranaget: god of life/life deity  
> Auranasun: to live  
> -nam: sentence ender. Ex.: the Japanese desu.  
> -na: casual sentence ender.  
> Ta: Yes or okay. An informal statement of assent or approval, equivalent to the word "yeah" in English.  
> Kaina: No. An informal statement of dissent or disapproval, equivalent to the word "nah" in English.  
> kana: servant or close worker, as in a ranking officer close to a high position.  
> Delpatnam*: Formal goodbye, lit. "good future"  
> *Delpatnam can be shortened in various ways to express levels of formality. Depa, which can easily be confused with other words, is the least formal.


End file.
